The Old Man was no stranger to killing. He was wild and vicious, and drank blood with as much pleasure as he did the summer rains. No, he was not tame; he was not merciful, but he was not evil.

There was another desert though. The one who drew his power from the oily black pain that leaked from the city and soaked into his soil. He cloaked himself with curses, bled his slaves without reason, and took the witch-women of the mountains to his bed.